A Most Favorable Arrangement
by LuxKen27
Summary: Five years for her, five hundred for him – it didn’t matter. They were strangers, distant companions in a time paradox; it was only logical that they eventually sought -something- in their strange, shared circumstance.


Title: A Most Favorable Arrangement

Author: LuxKen27

Universe: Post-canon (modern era)

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Rating: X

Warning: Explicit sex

Word Length: 1855

Summary: Five years for her, five hundred for him – it didn't matter. They were strangers, distant companions in a time paradox; it was only logical that they eventually sought _something_ in their strange, shared circumstance.

_Disclaimer: The_ Inuyasha _concept, storyline, and characters are copyright Rumiko Takahashi and Viz Media._

.xxxxx.

Sesshoumaru stirred beneath silk sheets, unsure of what had roused his attention in the middle of the night. He sighed softly, opening his eyes, his vision adjusting rapidly to the utter darkness of the room. It was cool and quiet, this late March night, the room devoid of sounds beyond the gentle whirring of the overhead fan and the ticking of his bedside clock. He eyed the latter for a moment before shifting in the soft cocoon of sheets, rolling onto his back and freeing the shimmering curtain of his silver hair, letting it fan out across the pillows. He wasn't surprised when his hand met nothing but empty space as he reached across the bed. He only wondered, rather half-heartedly, if she had already taken her leave, disappearing into the ether before the sun even rose, slipping away in shame or regret.

Neither scenario would surprise him.

Nothing surprised him, anymore.

He had lived too long, seen too much.

After a moment of such contemplation, he sat up, pushing back against the pillows and reaching for the lamp on the bedside table. Only then did he hone in on the sound of rain tapping softly against the window, and the ever-so-slight sniffle of accompanying tears. Silently, he inclined his head, gazing across the room to see her, nearly wrapped in the shadows of the draperies. Somewhere between here and there she'd picked up his shirt, sliding it around herself and buttoning it halfway. It offered little protection from the chill of the room or potential prying eyes, making him wonder why she'd even bothered in the first place.

The flicker of the light prompted her to speak, though she did not turn to face him. "It's always worse on the night of the new moon," she said, her voice catching at the last. "I can almost…_feel_ him, the way he held me, like he was letting me close to his heart." She wrapped her arms around herself, one hand rising to her face, using the cuff of his sleeve to wipe away her tears.

Sesshoumaru stared at her dispassionately, his eyes hooded. He'd known, of course. From the moment she appeared on his doorstep, her eyes full of conflict and despair…

…from the moment she crossed the threshold into this room, disrobing wordlessly…

…from the first taste of her lips, from the almost desperate way she clung to him, from the moment she rose from the bed…

It was not _him_ she sought out, but the comfort of a distant memory, the last living link to a past she could not quite bring herself to accept.

Five years for her, five hundred for him – it didn't matter. They were strangers, distant companions in a time paradox; it was only logical that they eventually sought _something_ in their strange, shared circumstance. That she was now streaked with sorrow and guilt for sleeping with him was irritating, but unsurprising. He could hardly bring himself to care about the inner workings of the human heart; he'd never understood feelings of love or hate or anguish, or the power these emotions held over these ever so mortal actions and reactions. Humanity spent so much time dithering about, that it was no wonder it'd taken them five hundred years to finally overcome – and suppress – the vastly superior youkai race.

He was one of the few remaining of his kind.

Time had been kind to him, his royal bloodlines keeping him young and fit, helping him adapt and survive and settle. It was but by chance that they had met again, knocking elbows on a modern-day street, and he almost didn't recognize her – she had long since lost the naïve innocence that had, at one time, sent her headlong into battle against him. Instead, she wore the look of a lost soul: jaded, but not yet cynical; older, wiser, but not willing to part with her childish optimism just yet. She'd followed him to his office, hovering and confused, as if she'd seen a ghost but was not quite sure what to make of it. Perhaps rather cruelly, he'd waited until the end of the day to confirm her suspicions about his identity, and thought nothing more of ever seeing her again…though he had a hunch.

And, right on cue, she appeared – on the next night of the new moon, the night that had encompassed the hanyou's weakest, most vulnerable time, the night she felt closest to his spirit, and yet still so raw and unfulfilled by their abrupt parting.

"I never got to say goodbye," she whispered, bringing him back to the present, tentatively touching the window pane as if the slightest pressure would shatter it into a thousand pieces. "Maybe…I thought…with you…but I've only made things worse."

Not until she was in his bed did he realize the hanyou had never taken her as his lover – nor, indeed, had anybody else. The strange feeling he'd dismissed in that moment began to burble under the surface once more, reawakened by the strain of need belying her tone. Yes, indeed, what a dilemma she faced now: she'd used him, for her own purposes, but now she felt those first strings of attachment that so often accompanied first sex, thoughts and feelings she'd held in reserve for his brother for the five years, if not longer.

Sex always made things messy, if one allowed it to.

That was why he preferred to take and discard lovers at his leisure, instead of at his peril. Being firmly in control at all times was the key to this never-ending game of strategy, of reinvention, of assimilation. He had always prided himself on his ability to build walls between himself from the world…but this?

He almost had the inclination to indulge.

He pushed aside the sheets, swinging his legs over the bed and standing, silently crossing the room. She seemed to curl into herself as he approached, covering her face with her hands, a fresh wave of sobs breaking in her chest.

"I'm sorry, Sesshoumaru," she murmured as she felt his arms encircle her waist, pulling her close, settling in the warmth between her skin and the shirt. "I'm just…so damn sorry."

"Hmm," he mused, resting his chin on her shoulder, allowing the sound to rumble through his chest and reverberate through her body. "I don't care why you're here, only that you are," he replied carelessly, his breath warm against her ear.

She shuddered in response as one of his hands cupped her breast, the tips of his claws tweaking a nipple, while the other drifted between her thighs, one finger – then two – dipping inside her most intimately. Her knees gave out as he stroked her languidly, but he caught her before she could fall, steadying her against the wall, his chest to her back, the hem of the shirt riding up between them. He continued his gentle caresses, until her body was warm and pliant under his, until her sobs had subsided into jerky breaths, until her hips opened and rocked against his hand.

"If this is all you ask of me – " he vowed in a low tone, positioning her hips to accommodate the deep thrust as he took her from behind, " – then this is all I want from you."

She exhaled sharply, surprise flooding through her, and leaned forward, against the wall, fisting bits of curtains in her hands. He held her close, his hands splaying over her torso as their hips rocked together in a smooth, gentle rhythm. Pressure began to build in the cradle of his pelvis, steady, intimate, almost comforting.

He could feel the rush of blood in her veins as she neared the apex of her climax, the way her body tensed and contracted, the way her breath became shallow and quick before very nearly stopping. She was young, and inexperienced, and not yet able to control or sustain her orgasm; she peaked fast, forcing him to brace her before he was ready, to ride out her waves of pleasure while still searching for his own. It didn't take long; his nails dug into her flesh as his climax roared through him, into her. She responded better than he anticipated to his release, standing firm as he pressed her into the wall, reciprocating his strength, signaling she was a quick study in sex as well as battle.

As soon as he pulled away, she turned to face him, throwing her arms over his shoulders and pressing her mouth to his, following through with this all-too-human ritual of kissing after coitus. He found it a bit unnerving, but not distasteful – she _tasted_ very good, indeed, even under the tracks of dried tears – and he indulged her in this whimsy, if only for a moment. She was content to hold him then, her chest rising and falling against his, a fresh wave of guilty tears sliding down her cheeks and pooling on his shoulder.

He gathered her in his arms and carried her back to the bed, his logical mind rising from the haze of satisfied lust to take hold once more. They were not a perfect match, that much was clear; he couldn't help wondering, as he tucked her between the sheets, how much longer she would continue to seek him out. He was not her friend, nor really even her lover – not in the truest sense of the word, at least. He was an emotional crutch, a convenient body, one with which to share shameful secrets, to stir up memories of the past, to seek something just beyond her reach.

He had only just crawled into the bed himself, giving her his back before reaching out to turn off the lamp, when he felt her hand on his shoulder, momentarily stilling his movements.

"What if – " Her voice hitched in her throat.

He stared straight ahead, his fingers curled around the small metal chain, his hand rapidly warming under the heat of the bulb. He silently counted the steady beats of his heart as he waited for her to finish.

If she was to ask what he anticipated, he would not give her the reassurance of a prompt.

"What if this isn't all I ever ask of you? What if…what if one day, I want to _know_ you?"

He pulled the chain, shrouding them in darkness once more, before sliding down beside her. "You already know me," he murmured in response. "That's why you're here. That's why you'll leave just before daybreak." He paused. "That's why you won't return until the next new moon."

Her hand fell away from his shoulder; after a moment, he felt her shift on the mattress, turning away from him, her hair brushing against his back as she tucked her chin to her chest, probably to hide any evidence of her guilty conscience.

His lips thinned into a grim smile.

She would understand, soon enough.

He didn't mind being used, but she would be used in turn: her past for his present, her shame for his pride, her pleasure for his gain.

"That's what makes this a most favorable arrangement."


End file.
